Esteban looked at him blankly.
“Go home, boy.” The man dusted off his pants and got up. “You’re wasting your time.”
In the evening, when the lines dwindled, Esteban tried again. He was sure that if he waited long enough, one of the guards would let him in, but the next one was just as mean and chased him out with a baton.
Esteban returned the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Finally, one of the guards acknowledged him.
“Name of inmate?”
“Maria Luisa Alvarez.”
“Your name?”
“Esteban Samuel Alvarez.”
“Did you bring me lunch?” asked the man.
“Lunch?”
The guard crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you around. Haven’t you learned yet? Who’s going to pay for my lunch?”
Esteban suddenly understood how it worked. “How much is . . . your lunch?”
“Three hundred and fifty pesos,amigo. You can see your mother every day for a month.”
“How much for just one day?”
“Same.”
“Please. I don’t have any money. Just let me see her. Tomorrow I’ll come back with my uncle. I’ll bring your lunch and—” said Esteban.
“No money, nomadre.” The guard shooed him away.
The next person in line replaced Esteban. He watched as she handed the guard something discreetly. Apparently, everyone knew the drill. Esteban thought of the big bundle of cash that Victor had handed Fernando.
When he got home, he found Fernando passed out in a pool of his own drool.
“TíoFernando.” He tried to rouse him, but he knew there was no point. Esteban patted him down. He found a few coins in his pocket, but Fernando had drunk his way through whatever money he’d had.
“No, no, no!” Esteban wanted to rip him open so he could grab three hundred and fifty pesos from his black, liquor-soaked liver. He went looking through the whole house, but found nothing, not even a can of beans he could sell for some cash.
Esteban had no choice but to turn to the one man who could help him: Warren Sedgewick.
Look after it, he’d told Victor, just as he’d done after Esteban had punched Gidiot.
Esteban was pretty sure Warren would have stepped in had he known about the punishment Victor had set for him, and he was pretty sure he’d step in now if he learned exactly how Victor had ‘looked after’ MaMaLu. Esteban believed that Skye’s father was a fair man. He had tried to protect MaMaLu from El Charro, the man whose face Esteban had not seen. Warren had sent money, lots of money, to have Esteban cared for, not knowing that Fernando was a dirty, rotten alcoholic. Esteban was convinced that if Warren knew the truth, he would get MaMaLu out of Valdemoros.
The walk from Fernando’s place, in Paza del Mar, to Casa Paloma was thirty minutes. Esteban sprinted the whole way, his feet getting cut on the small, jagged stones that littered the path through the jungle, but he was filled with hope. He ran through the dense foliage, ducking branches that swatted his face and arms, until the trees thinned out and he could see the gates of Casa Paloma.
He spotted Warren and Skye getting into their silver Peugeot. The driver pulled out of the circular driveway. They had just cleared the wrought iron gates when Esteban got there.
“Wait!” He ran after them on the dirt road that led out of Casa Paloma. The wheels were spinning clouds of dust in their wake. Esteban’s lungs filled with dry, powdered earth.
“Skye,” he shouted.
She turned around and looked at him through a haze of grime and grit.
“Stop. Skye!” He waved, coming to a standstill as a sharp pain gripped his side. He doubled over, trying to ease the runner’s stitch.
